Chapter 10 #2
Mary climbed to her feet and fished in her pocket for the key her father had left beneath her pillow. “Just help me find my dad, will you?”
She left the tiny room by ducking through a door too short for an adult, but just right for a child. A chuckle bubbled up in her chest when Nick practically duck-walked out of her secret room.
They entered another basement, closing the cubby door behind them. The door was cleverly hidden by a large, framed picture of George Washington. Unless someone knew the door was there, he’d never think to look behind old George. That had been her father’s idea.
Smaller than the first one, this basement lay beneath the house she’d grown up in and was as familiar to her as her old room upstairs.
With snow covering the ground sometimes six months out of the year, Alaskans made full use of all inside space.
Especially curious kids with active imaginations.
The house and the store had been Mary’s castle, complete with hidden passages and secret rooms with its trove of fabulous treasures hidden beneath the earth.
Swallowing a lump of nostalgia, Mary worked her way through the room, stopping at old trunks and boxes with locks on them. One by one she fitted the key into locks only to be disappointed when the locks didn’t open.
When she came upon a pale lilac trunk she paused.
It didn’t have a lock, but she couldn’t resist opening it anyway.
“This trunk belonged to my mother.” She lifted the lid, a wave of longing washing over her as she stared down at the things her mother had cherished.
Things neither she nor her father could part with.
Mary lifted the bottle of perfume her father had bought for her mother’s last birthday. Knowing she was a fool for doing it, she sprayed some on her wrist, the scent surrounding her, reminding her of happier times. Pain squeezed hard in her chest, making it hard for her to breathe.
“She must have been a remarkable woman,” Nick said.
“I miss her so much.” Mary set the bottle back in the trunk and closed the lid.
“But we’re here to help Dad.” She wove her way through boxes and discarded furniture, old tools and car parts until she came to a row of shelves.
A wooden footlocker, painted Army green, perched on the top shelf.
A footlocker with a shiny new lock securing the latch on the front.
A knot of excitement filled her belly, and she rose up on her tiptoes to reach for it.
“Let me.”
Mary stood back while Nick, standing flat-footed, hefted the box from the shelf and softly laid it on the floor.
Without a doubt, she was certain she had the right trunk. A new silver padlock secured the rusty latch. When Mary inserted the key, it turned effortlessly, popping the hasp free. Within seconds the lid was opened and they both stared down into the footlocker.
Mary lifted an old Army dress uniform draped in an envelope of sheer dry-cleaning plastic.
She laid it on the open lid of the footlocker and placed her penlight on top of it, shining down into the interior space.
Inside was a collection of medals, hats, and various souvenirs from foreign countries.
In the right corner was a stack of documents with Charles Mercer’s name written on each.
An Army Commendation Medal, a Meritorious Service Medal, a Bronze Star for bravery in battle and a Purple Heart for an injury in Bosnia.
Intermixed among the documents were a stack of old letters and photographs of a man in his late teens wearing a crisp new uniform, probably fresh out of Basic Combat Training.
Another picture was of the same youth with more lines on his face than a man in his early twenties should have.
He wore the full combat gear of a soldier serving in war torn country, right down to the leaves and branches tucked into the strap of his helmet—camouflaged to protect him from enemy view.
He held a rifle and hand grenades were strapped to his web belt—a young soldier prepared to die for his country; in a war no one believed in back home.
“These are my dad,” Mary said, her voice catching.
She leaned closer, studying the print on his name tag.
“Charles Mercer. He never told me his real name. I wonder why?” She flipped through the photographs, one at a time.
There was a shot of her father in a jeep, a shot of him standing in front of a large Army tent and one of him with the men of his platoon.
They all looked brave, young and happy, despite the deplorable conditions of their camp.
Their uniforms consisted of dirty uniforms, helmets, rifles and a webbed harnesses with grenades and ammo pouches stuck through loops.
Mary could make out bits of the camp in the background and a Bosnian woman standing behind the men, her face barely visible to the camera.
“Let me see that one.” Nick took the group shot from her hands.
“If I’m not mistaken, that’s Frank Richards.
” He pointed at a man in the second row.
“I have a copy of an old photo on my computer of Frank Richards in his uniform during the Bosnia peacekeeping mission with NATO. Let’s take this back to the room.
Do you mind if I have a look through this stuff? ”
“No, go ahead.” Mary moved back, clutching the other photographs.
Nick picked through the contents of the trunk, setting things to the side on the lid until the trunk was empty. Then he felt along the base of the trunk.
“What are you doing?”
“Seeing if there are any hidden compartments.” He shook his head.
“None here that I can tell.” He placed all the war memorabilia back in the trunk and ran his fingers over the lid.
“No. Nothing.” He pulled a large plastic bag from his back pocket and slid the documents and the group photo inside. “Want me to carry those as well?”
Mary stared down at the photos, taking one more look before handing them over. “Thanks.”
Somewhere above them, a door closed.
Mary jumped. “Someone’s upstairs. Do you think Jasmine made it home in this weather?”
Nick handed her the bag while he closed the lid to the trunk. “Want me to check it out?”
Mary shook her head. The lighter sound of a woman’s heels clicked toward the door to the kitchen. The door that led to the basement. “No, we need to hide. She’s headed this way.”
Nick bent to lift the trunk.
Mary’s hand on his arm stopped him. “No time. We have to hurry.”
Nick shoved the trunk against the shelf and used a discarded rag to brush at the dust on the trunk and floor in a weak attempt to hide their hand- and footprints.
Mary grabbed his hand. “No time, come on.”
“Where to?”
“Back to my cubby.” With nothing but Nick’s flashlight beam to guide her, Mary raced across the basement, trying not to make too much noise. She leaped over tools and dodged boxes making it to her cubby just as the kitchen door opened, lighting the dark stairs.
Nick bumped into her and flicked his flashlight off.
Mary fumbled in her pocket for her own penlight, but it wasn’t there. Then she remembered she’d left it on the lid of the trunk. It must have fallen in when they closed it in a hurry. She hadn’t turned it off.
Before the footsteps finished descending the steps, Mary pulled on the corner of the framed George Washington and ducked back inside the cubby, dragging Nick with her.
As soon as Nick made it through, she closed the door, hoping they hadn’t been seen or heard.
Mary reached over her head and pulled the string next to the lightbulb, plunging them into darkness. Scooting around Nick’s hulking frame, she pressed her ear to the door. “I can’t hear anything,” she whispered.
“Good. Maybe she didn’t see us.”
“We need to get out of here, just in case she goes over to the shop and sees that the security alarm has been disabled.” Mary left the tiny door and felt her way in the dark back toward the tunnel entrance.
“Two break-ins in as many days will freak her out and have the police crawling all over the place.” Thank goodness they’d been wearing gloves. No fingerprints to trace back to them.
“Hold on just a minute.” Nick captured Mary’s hand. “I want to know what she’s looking for in the basement.”
“You want what?” Mary bit into her lower lip, her heart racing beneath her ribs. “We need to leave now.”
Nick gently squeezed her hand. “What reason could she have to come down to the basement right after getting back from Fairbanks? And in the dead of the night?”
“How do I know? I never have understood my stepmother.” Nor had she really tried.
She hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that her father could love someone other than her mother.
Selfish, she knew, but she couldn’t change the way she felt.
“The only thing I know for certain is that she never wanted me in the house from the get-go.”
Nick dropped her hand and squatted onto his haunches. Pushing against the spring-loaded cubby door, he poked his head out.
Mary leaned over his shoulder and looked out as well.
Jasmine Claus had reached the bottom of the stairs, her hand holding a cell phone to her ear as she spoke in another language.
“Sounds Slavic,” Nick said.
“You speak Slavic?” Mary stared at the man inches from her. She knew nothing about him.
“A little Croatian. Not enough to converse.”
Jasmine ended the call, reached out and tripped the light switch, illuminating the interior of the basement.
Mary automatically backed into the cubby, the fear of discovery tingling down her spine. Though why she should be afraid of Jasmine, she didn’t know. She knew, deep down, she didn’t want to like the woman, mostly because she’d come between Mary and her father.
Jasmine, wearing heeled boots and a long red sweater dress, picked her way through the boxes and storage tubs just as Mary and Nick had a few minutes before.
Mary held her breath, hoping the woman didn’t see any footprints or traces of their earlier foray through the basement. And she hoped she wouldn’t find the—
Her stepmother must have read Mary’s mind because she zeroed in on the footlocker as if that was exactly what she’d been searching for.
“Uh, Nick,” Mary whispered, tapping lightly on his shoulder.
“What?” he answered without pulling his gaze off Jasmine.
“Did you put the lock back on the footlocker?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have the key?”
“In my pocket.”
Mary let out a sigh.
“Why?”
“I think my penlight is in that footlocker and still shining.”
Nick looked up at her in the shadows. “Let’s hope she’s not smart enough to figure out how to get into that lock.”
“Yeah.”
Jasmine squatted next to the footlocker and tugged at the lock. When it didn’t open, she straightened and looked around the basement. As if spotting what she was looking for, she moved across to the workbench Mary’s father kept his tools on and lifted a large tool off a nail on the wall.
“It’s time to leave,” Nick said.
“Why?”
“She’s got a pair of bolt cutters. When she finds that light on in there, she’s bound to call the police.”